


Room for One More Troubled Soul

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, everyone is kissing everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a rule, Templars don't demand that the Dalish hand their mages over to the Circle of Magi, so when Anders sees them dragging a weak, bleeding mage through the halls and down to the dungeons, his curiosity gets the better of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The whispers started before the Templars even left. Niall, who overheard the discussion between the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, told Karl what he heard, and Karl, soft-hearted with occasional bouts of poor judgment, told Anders. Once Anders knew, the entire circle of magi was abuzz with the most exciting gossip to reach the mages' ears in a decade.

A Dalish mage was coming to the tower.

Though it was known that elves were more likely to have an aptitude for magic, there were only a few living in Kinloch Hold at the time, and they were all born in Denerim's Alienage. Among them, not a single one had met a Dalish elf. Several were quick to dismiss Anders' story, recalling their elders' warnings about the "myth" of the Dalish, but the others hung on his words while he repeated himself in utter, naked awe at the prospect of meeting one of the wild elves.

It was not policy for the Chantry to meddle in the affairs of the Dalish, so long as they stayed out of cities, so speculation as to why they were making an exception for this mage became the preferred topic of conversation between the mages and apprentices. Instructors and Enchanters quashed the discussion when they overhead it, but as soon as they were out of earshot the gossip began anew. One mage suggested that the Dalish may be a maleficarum, but that theory did not take hold due to the disbelief that Templars would bring a living blood mage to the tower. An apprentice suggested that the Dalish may be coming willingly, but was immediately shot down by the few elves holding onto the mythology of the proud, dignified Dalish who swore to never surrender.

They did not need to speculate for long. Late in the night, while Anders roamed the corridors, restless and curious, he heard the distinctive clank and rustle of Templar armor and ducked into an alcove. He saw the Dalish when they passed, his arms shackled behind his back with irons, face hidden by a curtain of dirty red hair. His feet were bare, dirty, and slack as the Templars dragged him down the hall. Once they passed, Anders stepped out onto the flagstones in the hallway to see a trail of tiny blood drops in the Templars’ wake.

Anders set his jaw and made another in a long line of poor decisions. He followed the Templars.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to stay out of sight as he crept down the staircase to the cellar, but neither of the Templars flanking the elf noticed him sneaking through the door behind them. The iron bars stretching from floor to ceiling sent a chill through his blood, sinking deep into his gut. He was familiar with them, too familiar, and that the Templars were immediately locking the Dalish mage into a cell was troubling.

Anders made himself small against the wall as they pushed the elf into the cell, leaving his arms shackled behind him. As he sunk into the shadows, Anders noticed one of the Templars’ skirts was tattered and burnt. He understood their caution now, and the derisive snort one made when the elf slumped to the floor, leaning weakly against the side of the cell. They left him there, taking a path opposite to where Anders stood, speaking to one another in a muffled murmur that Anders could not quite translate into words.

Once the sounds of armor had faded into whispers, he watched the elf with sympathy. He knew from experience that those walls and floors were cold and unyielding, and that rest was hard to come by. The Dalish mage was wearing a light robe, thin and ragged, much less suitable for the chill in Kinloch Hold than the apprentice robes, and though there was a blanket in the corner of his cell, he was unable to reach it due to the shackles.

The Dalish lifted his head, his hair sliding back to expose his heavily tattooed face, and he looked directly into the alcove where Anders hid. Anders held his breath as he met the mage’s bright eyes, realizing then he had been spotted.

“Do not think I don’t see you, shemlen,” the mage said, his voice low and melodic with an unfamiliar accent. “I have suffered enough at your hands.”

“Not mine specifically,” Anders countered. “Are you alright? I saw blood.”

“I do not want or need your help,” the mage said, his voice weary and clipped.

“But I’m a healer. If you’re injured I could--”

“Go away.”

“I don’t bloody have to,” Anders said. He crossed his arms and stepped out of the alcove, walking to the edge of the bars to stare down at the elf. “Look, I know how they’ve treated you, and I know you don’t deserve to suffer.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re a mage. I know mages, and I know how the Templars feel about those who don’t come quietly.” The Dalish slumped his head forward, his face obscured again by his hair. Anders’ face softened. “The more you bark and snarl, the more you convince me that you’re utterly terrified. I don’t blame you. I just want to stop the bleeding and make sure nothing’s broken.”

“Why?”

Anders shrugged. “If it were me, I’d hope someone would do the same.” He watched the mage’s shoulders rise and fall, his head slack on his neck, and he stayed quiet while the elf deliberated.

“It’s my wrists,” he said finally. With difficulty, he pressed himself to the back wall, using his shoulder against the stone for balance as he struggled to his feet without using his bound arms. But he was strong, and he lifted himself to his feet to draw near to the iron bars. Anders saw slick darkness on the shackles as he came to the bars and noticed that the elf’s wrists were so raw that blood had soaked through his robes where they touched it.

“Maker’s blood, you must have made them angry.”

“I was defending myself,” the elf said sharply, turning around so his back was facing Anders.

“You misunderstand me.” Anders lifted his hands and pushed them through the bars, hovering over the elf’s mangled wrists. “I’m impressed.” He felt around in the Fade, grasping onto a kernel of pure, intoxicating magic, and forcing it into himself. Anders closed his eyes, and let that magic pour from his hands, blue and icy, to flow over the elf’s body like water. When he opened them, his wrists were whole, though crusted with dried blood.

“Just what I wanted. Praise from a shem.” The elf sighed as he turned around. His hair was still in his eyes, and he tried to shrug it back the best he could as he looked up at Anders. “But...thank you,” he said slowly. “I...had not expected kindness.”

“Well, I’m not a Templar, now am I? Not that they’re all bad either. There’s a few good apples in the bunch, and I’ll try to hunt one down to get you out of that cage in the morning.” The elf shrugged, best he could, and moved to a cot in the corner of the cell, gingerly climbing onto it and lying on his side. “You can call me Anders, by the way,” he added, starting towards the door but hovering just outside of it. “Just don’t tell the Templars I was down here. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“Then why did you bother?”

Anders shrugged again. “Maybe I know what it feels like to be ripped away from your family. Or maybe I just can’t keep my nose out of other people’s business. You’ll never know unless you get to know me, now will you?” The elf said nothing, and Anders started towards the door.

“Wait,” the elf caught Anders’ eye again when he turned. “Thank you again. I--My name is Theron.”

“I’ll see what I can do for you, Theron,” Anders said with a slight nod, and slipped out of the cellar door.

Upstairs the halls were silent and still. Anders hoped that meant the Templars had completed their last rounds as he walked nervously through the wide center rooms towards the staircase. Fortunately he reached the sixth floor, where the Templars had small, private rooms, without seeing a single flash of polished silver armor.

Four doors down from the staircase was the room belonging to Biff, a right bastard who clearly enjoyed seeing mages frightened of him, but two doors past his was the room belonging to Leon, a sympathetic recruit from Lothering. He claimed to have joined the Templar order out of a sense of duty to the Maker, as new recruits often did, but was still fresh faced and kind, often leading young Andrastian mages in prayer.

Realizing then that it would have been wiser to bring a quill and parchment to leave a note, Anders hesitated before Leon’s room, glancing furtively down the hallway before rapping lightly on the heavy wooden door. The sound was cacophonous in the silence and Anders jumped and pulled his arm rapidly away, clasping his wrists behind his back. For too long there was no answer, just a return to preternatural quiet and the whisper of wind through cracks in the mortar.

When the door opened, Leon was not behind it. Instead Anders was greeted by a familiar face, dark skinned with twinkling blue eyes, black hair falling wild around strikingly handsome features and long, tapered ears.

"Andraste's arse, Ziya," Anders whispered. "You're going to get yourself made tranquil at this rate!"

Ziya only smiled, hitching up the bed sheet wrapped around his waist. The bare skin of his shoulders and chest was dark and smooth, distinctively elven, but when he shifted, Anders could see a thin line of black hair trailing down his belly.

"What if I'd been a Templar?" Anders asked, and Ziya chuckled lowly, casting a meaningful glance into the room behind him. "A Templar you're not sleeping with, I mean."

"I guess I'd be in trouble then," Ziya said with an absent shrug, clutching the bunched sheet around his waist a bit tighter. "What are you doing knocking on a Templar's door in the middle of the night?"

"There's an elf in the dungeons, arms shackled, no water, no blanket, and he's scared. The men who brought him in were rough with him. I was hoping Leon could get him some water at least, maybe make him a little comfortable."

"I can ask. He's likely in a giving mood," he said with a significant smile. Anders groaned, wrinkling his nose like he'd smelled something foul.

"Thanks, I suppose, though you could stand to learn the value of discretion."

"I'll take that under advisement," Ziya said, though his smirk and rakish stance betrayed his lack of appreciation for the consequences of his behavior.

“Yes. Well.” Anders glanced down the hall again though it was still quiet, rubbing nervous, sweaty palms against his robes. “I should get back to the mage’s quarters. As should you, really.”

“I’m comfortable enough here,” said Ziya, leaning against the doorframe as if to prove it. “Besides, Leon’s bed is much softer than--”

“That’s more than enough. Maker’s blood, you’re exasperating.” Anders shook his head and backed away from the door. “Tell Leon I said thanks, though, if he does make it to the cellars.”

“I will. Always good to see you, Anders.” Ziya looked him over, then met his eyes with a sly smile. “Perhaps next time we could meet in a more private setting, hmm?”

“By the Maker, you’re incorrigible.” Anders rolled his eyes and started down the hallway, knowing that Ziya would at least keep to his word, though he would likely be obnoxious in doing so. Nevertheless, it lightened Anders’ mood to think that the new mage would at least see that despite his circumstances, there were at least a few people in the tower worth trusting. It would make it easier for him to transition to a life as a circle mage. Anders returned to his bed in the quarters for Harrowed mages, suddenly bitter, wishing someone had attempted to do the same for him when he was brought to the tower. He stared at the stone ceiling, fighting the memories of his first night in the tower, finding sleep only in the early hours of the morning.

 


	2. Chapter 2

If there had to be one good thing about life in Kinloch Hold, it would be that meals were always served on time. The food was not particularly good; there were no thick slabs of crusty bread slathered with yellow butter and topped with spoonfuls of currant jam, nor were there rashers of bacon or Anderfels sausage or milk from the cattle outside. Instead, breakfast was often porridge, sometimes toast. Sometimes there were apples, sometimes not. But it was on time and it was plentiful, a blessing to the growling stomachs of growing young mages.

Anders suspected the Enchanters were served better food and would not have been surprised to hear that the Templars were as well, but there was some comfort in entering the dining hall at dawn to find every mage, apprentice and harrowed alike, sitting at the long wooden tables for breakfast.

He stifled a yawn as he approached the kitchen for his tray, smiling tight-lipped and sad at the tranquil who handed it to him. Her name was Emily, and he remembered when she was a shy, skittish apprentice with sweet eyes and a lovely singing voice. She didn't sing anymore, and her eyes were always glazed and far away. He saw her the day after it happened, when that sunburst brand was still a wound, and to see the shyness completely gone from her hurt the most. She put an apple on his tray. He thanked her and turned away.

Anders carried his tray to an empty seat on the long benches flanking the massive table. He looked for Karl as he walked, but could not spot his familiar, kind face in the sea of mages. Instead of searching further he sat alone, empty spots on either side, and began to eat. The porridge was treacly; flavored with something different than the usual--molasses perhaps, though Anders was never sure. He could ask if he really wanted, but any curiosity about the meal was overwhelmed by the intrigue of the Dalish mage in the dungeons.

Though Anders had returned to his quarters without incident and with more than enough time to sleep, he had rested little, his mind brimming with questions he wanted to ask the elf. He was curious as to how he had been found by the Templars, but more importantly, he wanted to know everything there was to know about having grown up among people who revered magic and kept their mages free.

He felt a person sit beside him and knew it was Ziya without seeing him. Ziya always sat hip to hip with him, leaning his slight body weight against him in a way that reminded him distinctly of the tower's aging mouser, Mr. Wiggums. Anders always suspected that if Ziya could wind around his legs and purr, he'd do it constantly--to everyone. 

"So," Ziya began, picking up Anders' mug of tea and cupping it between his hands. "I met your Dalish."

"Give that here." Anders took the cup from him, ignoring Ziya's pout. "I know you've had your own, and possibly someone else's, you filcher."

"I've not had anyone else's tea. Leon is busy in the cellar, so I wasn't able to nick his." Ziya folded his arms on the table to rest his head on them. "The Dalish is angry."

"He ought to be. His wrists were raw meat before I healed them. That's not exactly a friendly welcome. Besides, he doesn't belong here, he belongs with his people." We _all_ do, he added mentally.

With a pickpocket's eye, Ziya studied Anders, watching his line of sight as he slowly reached for the slice of toast on the edge of the plate. Once it was in hand, he stuffed it into his mouth, tearing off a chunk and chewing with a triumphant, fat cheeked smile.

"They'd give you seconds if you asked for them," Anders said, his patience waning while Ziya shrugged and finished the toast. “Does Leon have any idea how long they’re going to keep him down there?”

“It all depends on whether he cooperates or not.” One of the younger Enchanters passed the opposite side of the table and Ziya paused, adjusting his sleeve. He continued only once the Enchanter was out of earshot. "He wouldn't talk to Leon, and tried speaking to me in old Elvish."

"You speak Elvish?" Anders asked, impressed. Ziya had his talents, but he had not suspected linguistics was among them.

"No, but I recognize the sound." Ziya reached up to rub his ear, his brows furrowing when he dropped his gaze from Anders to the rough wooden table. "Sort of like how you would know a song you hadn't heard in many years by the melody. Anyway, the Dalish wasn't happy, but he spoke to me in trade tongue and told me he needed to get back to his people."   

"What did you say?"

"There was nothing I _could_ say. With Leon standing right there, I couldn't very well tell him that I would help him get out of the tower, or something. Besides, you're the expert in that," Ziya said pointedly. "All I said was that it would be easier if he just did what the Templars said."

"Oh, I'm sure he was eager to put that advice into practice." Anders rolled his eyes, then lifted his cup to his mouth. The tea was bitter, over steeped again, and Anders wondered if the Tranquil made the food or just handed it out. There was a distinctive lack of life in the food sometimes, and he let Ziya have his other piece of toast after contemplating it, feeling his hunger dying in his gut.

"About as eager as you'd expect," said Ziya as he gratefully took the toast.

"I don't know how you eat so bloody much."

"Elves are like fires, we're always shrinking," Ziya said solemnly. "It's only by constantly replenishing our fuel that we don't waste away to nothing."

"Does that work on anyone?"

"Blair gives me her pudding every other night."

"Gossip says that's not all she gives you," Anders said, finishing his tea. The bells would ring soon, and mages would be shuffled off to classes, lectures, and meetings. "And gossip about you is always right."

“You’ve seen her. If it was your ears she wanted to nibble, would you say no?”

"That's not the point," Anders said, smiling. Ziya leaned against him, friendly, conspiratorial, and put his lips to Anders' ear, cupping his mouth with his hand to muffle his speech.

"Speaking of nibbling, I'm free tonight." Ziya's breath was warm, his lips just barely brushing against Anders' earlobe. "I could come if you wanted me to."

"I’m sure you could," Anders said with a chuckle. He stood, stepping away from Ziya slowly enough to allow him to rebalance without having him to lean on. "I'll let you know over dinner so long as you're not too busy with Blair and her pudding."

"I'm a busy man," Ziya said, feigning solemn gravity. "I can’t promise that I won't be needed elsewhere if you don't give me an answer now." Humor sparkled in Ziya’s unusually bright eyes as he stood, gathering Anders' breakfast dishes.

With a quick glance around the room, Anders put his hand on Ziya’s shoulder and leaned down. "I don't need a blow job so badly that I'm going to make an appointment," he said, his voice just above a whisper. Ziya's sober mask slipped, the corners of his lips twitching into a slow grin.

Swayed by ever-changing moods and motivations, Anders fondly tweaked Ziya’s ear before taking his dishes from him and heading towards the kitchen to drop them off. Emily was standing near a cart, looking past Anders until he approached her.

“Was breakfast satisfactory?” she asked in a tone that was nice, but without inflection.

“Absolutely,” he replied, offering her the dishes. “But I was wondering if I could have seconds. Awfully hungry this morning.”

“Of course. We only have toast and tea left, but I will get some.” She took the plates from him and carried them into the kitchen, single-minded in her focus as she carefully avoided mages milling about the doors. Bells rang somewhere in the tower, and Anders cocked his head slightly, thinking, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing that day. It didn’t matter; he wouldn't be doing it anyway, but it was always good to know where one was supposed to be in case one was found elsewhere.

“I’m sorry, but most of the dishes are dirty,” Emily said, no remorse reflected in her flat voice. She offered Anders a cloth napkin with two pieces of buttered toast sitting on it, as well as a mug of tea. He took the napkin and wrapped up the toast, tucking it into one of the pockets in his robes, and took the mug from her with a sad smile.

“Thanks, Emily,” he said, wishing just once, just one more time, she would blush and turn away from him in debilitating shyness. Instead she nodded without a change in her expression, and Anders turned away, holding back the sigh until he was out of sight.

Frequently possessed by a spate of poorly thought out plans, Anders let himself be carried off at the whims of another one right now, ducking around the milling crowd of apprentices to open the door to the cellar and slip down there, unnoticed. Though he was confident they fed the Dalish, he figured that a little company couldn’t hurt, despite the prickly reception he’d received the night before.

Quietly he stalked through the halls, peering carefully around corners before rounding them, eyeing a suit of armor with suspicion as he passed it on the way to the cell. He didn’t remember that being there before, but others lined the hall further down, so he paid it little attention for now.

As he neared the cells, two sets of bright, glowing eyes flashed at him, one set smaller and closer together than the other, and for a moment Anders just stood there, completely confused. A soft meow from behind the bars reminded him that Mr. Wiggums liked to spend time in the dungeon due to the abundance of rats that scurried around on the bare stone floors.

“I see you met the resident mouser,” Anders said, stopping just outside of the cell.

The Dalish, Theron, was sitting on the cot with his legs folded over one another, wearing one of the familiar apprentice robes, his attention on the plump cat curled up in his lap. It appeared that Leon had unshackled him, but Anders could feel by a cool crackle in the air that anti-magic runes had been drawn around the cell. Theron met his eyes briefly, then turned away.

“He always keeps me company when I’m down here,” Anders said, and offered Theron the mug of tea.

“What do you want?” Theron asked, eyeing him warily as he scratched under Mr. Wiggums’ chin, paying more attention to the cat than Anders, though he did not look at him.

“Maker, you’re difficult. You’re in a freezing dungeon, can’t cast any spells, and you can’t even take a cup of warm tea without being suspicious about it.”

“I have no reason to trust you anymore than anyone else here.” Theron turned back to Mr. Wiggums, running the tips of his fingers through the cat’s fluffy fur.

“You’ll get through this whole thing a lot easier if you make some friends,” Anders said, still holding out the arm with the mug, near enough that Theron didn’t even have to get up to grab it.

“Do you know nothing of the Dalish? Have you no idea what your people did to mine?” Anders suspected that Theron was attempting to sound angry, but the tone of his voice was weary with a hard edge, no real bite to it.

“The Exalted March,” Anders said, and Theron lifted his head. “Two: Twenty Glory. The Dales fall and the remaining elves are rounded up into Alienages. It’s how the Dalish got their name. They teach us a little history here, and the rest can be found in the books, if you know what you’re looking for.” Anders shook his head lightly. “I have a good memory for ways the Chantry has fucked people over.”

Without disturbing Mr. Wiggums, Theron took the mug from Anders.

“I brought you some toast, too.” Anders fished it out of his pocket, protected by the napkin still, and offered it to him. Theron balanced the mug between his arm and the cat and took it, setting the toast on the cot.

“Thanks,” Theron said, though the wary note never really left his voice.

“So how’d they find you, the Templars, I mean?” Anders asked, and Theron, with the mug to his lips, shook his head.

“I’d rather not.”

“Well, I can’t very well ask you about the weather, now can I?” Anders sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re welcome for the food, I guess.”

“I am not looking for friends. I am looking for a way out, and if you cannot help me, then I do not care to get to know you,” Theron said curtly. “I appreciate your kindness, but I am being held prisoner, and it is very difficult to see the difference between jailer and well-intentioned fool.”

“Fool who knows fifteen ways how to get out of the tower,” Anders said sharply, smirking when Theron stopped mid-drink to stare at him. “We’re not in the wilds--you’re going to have to take your help where you can.”

“If you know a way out, why are you still here?” Theron asked, naked suspicion coloring his voice.

“I’ve been here since I was twelve. You could hold what I know about the outside world in that cup, and that makes it bloody difficult to survive.” Anders shrugged. “You, on the other hand.”

Theron pondered, setting the mug to the side and opening the napkin to gingerly take out a piece of somewhat crushed toast. “I see. I’m a way out for you, then?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” He chewed thoughtfully, lifting his hand off of Mr. Wiggums when a scratching from the corner alerted the cat to potential prey. “So what do I do?”

“Go along with things. Let the Templars start to trust you. Take lessons and make some friends.”

“I need to be with my clan,” Theron said with a frown. “I have no time for this.”

“If you want out, it’s the only way you’re getting there,” Anders said, and Theron sighed, resting his head on the wall behind him. “It’s better than sitting here in the dungeon, I can tell you that much. I’ve been in your place before.”

There was a scuffle from the corner of Theron’s cell that caught both his and Anders’ attention, it ended with a sharp squeak and Mr. Wiggums trotting off with something large in his mouth. Theron wrinkled his nose and turned back to Anders.

“Fine. I’ll play along, but you must promise to help me get back to my clan. They need me.” Theron’s eyes were stern, but pleading, and Anders didn’t have the heart to tell him about the phylacteries, or that the tower was in the middle of a lake with the only exit guarded by Templars.

“I’ll do what I can, I promise you that, but I can’t tell you it’ll happen fast.”

For a few moments, Theron appeared to ignore Anders, finishing the tea and toast and staring at the stones as if they offered some answers. He then unfolded himself and walked to the bars, his heavily tattooed face somewhat menacing in the dim light. Anders swallowed, then realized he was offering the mug and napkin back. He took them.

“I believe you,” Theron said quietly. “May Fen’Harel take you if you’re lying to me,” he added, murmuring, and Anders got the impression that he ought to be offended. Instead he offered Theron his hand, smiling when the elf gripped it and gave it a clumsy shake.

“I can’t let you out, but as soon as they release you, ask around for me. Those who don’t know me have heard of me, at least, and they’ll tell you where to go.”

“Infamous, are you?” Theron asked in a tone that would have sounded vaguely flirtatious, had Anders not known better.

“Enough that they’re going to notice I’m missing any minute now.” After stuffing the napkin back into his pocket he gave Theron a mock bow. “I’ll be back if I can, but don’t count on it. I may be...preoccupied tonight.” Theron shrugged and settled back onto the cot, folding his legs and closing his eyes. Whatever weaknesses he had, patience did not appear to be one of them.

Loosely carrying the mug in one hand, Anders managed to avoid Templars in the empty halls as he returned to the kitchen to give the mug to the cook. Behind him he could see Emily, washing dishes, the same expression plastered onto her face, and he had a sudden flash of Theron’s defiant, tattooed face, branded and dull, without spark, without life.

The shiver it sent down his spine was strong enough to make him visibly shake, and the cook eyed him suspiciously as he swiftly left, trying to shake the ugly thought from his mind.


End file.
